


Sole Mates

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Jimmy is Cinderella, what does that make Thomas? A counterfeit shoe salesman in Finchley, that's what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr April-May 2013. Fred Kostavas, his New Age parents, his dead boyfriend Linus and his love for the Duke of Crowborough are the invention of are-are-kay and appear in her masterpieces “Haunts” and “The Enchanted Life of Thomas Barrow”, available on AO3.

The boy was hot. Hot enough that Thomas stood up from where he’d been sitting, on an unopened box of nearly-Nikes, and tossed his cigarette aside, in case the guy was anti-smoking.

“Hiya.” The boy said.

“Hi,” Thomas replied, wittily.

The boy smiled, and Thomas felt like he was going to throw up. He didn’t look like a cop, but they never looked like cops. As Thomas had discovered that one time in the gents’ at Paddington station. “My mate Alfie says this is the place for shoes.”

“Right.” Thomas had no idea who Alfie was. The older guy who liked the fake snakeskin Pradas? The Irish guy? The tall ginger? “Well, who are you looking for? I mean, what,” Thomas corrected, hastily. “What are you looking for? In terms of shoes? Of course.”

The boy’s smile grew. Thomas hadn’t thought that was possible. “I love the Reebok Crossfits, but I can’t afford them.”

“Tell me about it, mate.” Thomas had those somewhere. He disappeared between the boxes, stacked three high from the front of the lockup all the way to the back. A new shipment had just come in. Grantham was great at paying for them, but he was shit at organization. Thomas needed someone to help him. An assistant of some kind. “What do you do? For work, I mean?” Thomas called, because he had to keep a conversation going. That was the worst part of the job, normally. He didn’t like making small talk at the best of times, let alone with the kind of losers that bought their counterfeit shoes out of a lockup in Finchley. This time, it was different.

“I’m a bike messenger,” the boy said.

“So you’ll need good shoes, then.” Thomas didn’t sell good shoes. He sold cheap shoes, and he was only doing that until something better came along. Nothing better had come along in three years, but it was just around the corner. He always believed that.

“Yeah. Mostly I just like to look nice, though.” The boy laughed.

Thomas looked up. “Seems like you’re doing a good job of it.”

“Glad you think so.” The boy met Thomas’ eye. Thomas swallowed. The kid was young. Sarah would jump on that, but Sarah wasn’t here today. She was down the Portobello Road, flogging her knock-off Gucci bags to a higher class of punter.

“Here they are.” Thomas found the box, and immediately thanked God for that. He brought it out to the front, taking his knife from his pocket to slice open the tape. The sweatshop workers in Guangzhou or wherever always did a great job of packing the shoes, nice and neat. Thomas appreciated that. He pulled out the first box. “What size are you after?”

“I’m not sure. My feet always seem to be bigger than I expect.” The boy caught Thomas’ eye, again, and smirked. Thomas felt a strange combination of joy, nerves and lust. It had been a long time since he’d gotten any, or even had the prospect of it. _Slow down_ , he warned himself. _You thought that Turkish bloke from the kebab stand was into you, too, and you ended up with a black eye._ Sarah had enjoyed that. She still brought it up, and it had been nearly two months ago.

“Why don’t you try these?” Thomas held out a pair of shoes. The boy hopped onto a box and kicked off his trainers.

“Can you help me?”

Thomas wasn’t a shoe salesman. He usually didn’t even let the punters try them on. They were here for cheap shoes; if they wanted service, they could go to bloody Asda. “Yeah, of course,” he heard himself say. He took one of the boy’s feet in his hands. The boy was wearing white sport socks. There was a hole in the end, and a toe peeped out. It was the most erotic thing Thomas had ever seen, and he spent most of his day looking at porn on his phone.

Thomas’ heart beat faster as he slipped his hand around the boy’s ankle, easing the shoe onto his foot. Thomas’ fingers brushed against warm skin, and he felt as if he’d been shocked. “Perfect fit,” the boy said. He blinked deliberately, practically batting his eyelashes. “Just like Cinderella. So that must make you Prince Charming.”

“Not in this lifetime, mate,” Thomas replied, but his voice was unsteady. He swallowed hard, trying to break up the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He put the other shoe on the boy’s other foot, as quickly and efficiently as possible, and laced them up.

“Brilliant.” The boy hopped down from the box, standing in front of Thomas. He was shorter than Thomas, which Thomas liked, but not too short. Thomas liked that, too. “How much do you want for them?”

“Twenty-five quid?” Thomas suggested.

The kiss came out of nowhere. One minute, Thomas was looking down at a good-looking boy; the next, that boy’s hand was on his arse and his tongue was in Thomas’ mouth. Thomas kissed back, unbelieving, for a long, long moment. The boy tasted like Orangina and chips; his hand massaged expertly as his tongue stroked gently against Thomas’. When the boy pulled away, they were both out of breath. He kissed Thomas one last time, a gentle peck on the lips, then smiled. “How much now?”

Thomas had no idea. He couldn’t form a single coherent thought. “Ten quid?” He managed to say, although he had no idea if that was even a number.

The boy pulled a wallet out of his jeans and pushed a ten-pound note into Thomas’ hand. “Thanks.” He turned to go.

“Wait.”

The boy turned back. Thomas didn’t know what to say. His lips were tingling and his head buzzed like he’d just done a line. But this was so, so much better. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“Jimmy,” the boy said. He winked. “I’ll see you later.” Thomas hoped so, fervently. He didn’t count on it. When Jimmy had gone, Thomas glanced down and noticed he’d left his old trainers behind. _Well,_ Thomas thought, lighting up a new cigarette, _at least I’ve got a souvenir._


	2. Chapter 2

“Oi. Prince Charming.”

Thomas quickly closed his browser—no matter how many hours he put into viewing porn, he never ceased to be amazed by the perversion and flexibility of some people—and looked up. Jimmy, the gorgeous blond who’d been in three weeks earlier, stood in the doorway of the lockup.

Last time, he’d been dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Now, he was wearing skin-tight red and white Spandex. It clung to every plane of his defined chest, to every ripple of his washboard abs. Lower down, his shorts strained around thick thigh muscles. In between, the outline of a plastic athletic cup, like some medieval codpiece, did nothing but accentuate the treasures Thomas imagined within.

Jimmy said something else, but Thomas didn’t hear. He was too busy quietly dying inside. “I’m…I’m sorry?” Thomas stammered.

Jimmy stared at him. “I said, these shoes you sold me are shit.”

Thomas looked. The shoes were in Jimmy’s hands, although he hadn’t noticed them until now. The sole had come away on one; the other, like Thomas, had lost its tongue.

“I…Well…”

“I want my money back.” Jimmy tossed down the shoes and came into the lockup, walking right up to Thomas.

“There’s no refunds.” There was a sign to that effect posted near the door, written in marker pen on a bit of ripped-up cardboard. “Anyway,” Thomas went on, gathering his bearings, “you only gave me ten quid for them.” Less than half of the regular price. Grantham would have gone mental if he knew, but of course, Thomas hadn’t told him.

“That wasn’t all I gave you, if I remember right.” Jimmy stepped even closer. He was within touching distance now, less than an arm’s length away.

Thomas remembered, too. He’d been remembering that kiss every night, as he lay in bed in the shitty little flat he shared with a guy he could barely stand. While William listened to his fucking Nepalese chants and bent himself into his fucking yoga positions on the other side of the door, Thomas lay in bed and wanked to the thought of this beautiful boy who’d completely fleeced him. He’d gotten so much enjoyment out of it, at the time and every day since, he hadn’t even minded. Not really.

“No,” Thomas said. “It weren’t.” 

Jimmy looked at him, catching his eye. Thomas swallowed. “I said, no refunds,” he repeated. His heart beat faster and his stomach churned. He regretted, suddenly, the extra-spicy kebab he’d had for lunch.

This time, Thomas anticipated the kiss. That didn’t make it any less incredible. Jimmy started slowly, pressing his closed mouth against Thomas’, and gradually increased the intensity, flicking his tongue, snakelike, against Thomas’ lips. He slid between them, licking at Thomas’ tongue and his palate and anything else he could reach while his hands held Thomas’ shoulders tightly enough to leave bruises.

Thomas liked men of contrasts. He liked the combination of sweet and rough, of strong and gentle. He liked that Jimmy’s lips were so, so soft, like kissing a fucking pillow, not that Thomas would know, but his hands gripped hard; he liked that Jimmy’s hair, when Thomas slid a hand into it, was delicate and silky but the chest Thomas felt against his was flat and firm. Most of all, Thomas fucking loved it when he turned around, trying to manoeuvre Jimmy into a better position, and Jimmy sat on the box of knock-off Louboutins behind him. Jimmy locked his legs around Thomas’ waist, pulling him close, and wound his arms around Thomas’ neck.

Thomas was getting hard. He assumed Jimmy was, too, by the way he shifted against Thomas. He groaned into Thomas’ mouth then pulled back, just a little, to kiss his way along Thomas’ cheek to his ear.

Thomas hesitated. He was famous for misreading people—Mr. Pamuk had only just started serving him again, after giving him a grudging apology: “I am sorry for the punch, Thomas, but you know, I am just not that way,” and he’d thought Phil was gearing up to propose when all he’d wanted was an easy lay—but this seemed obvious. Jimmy seemed obvious. He ran his tongue along the outside of Thomas’ ear, and Thomas said, “Want to go into the back?”

There was no “back”, per se, but there was a spot behind the boxes, just big enough to lie down if Jimmy didn’t mind getting a bit dirty, and Thomas was more than willing to shut the lockup door. “Hmm,” Jimmy murmured. The vibrations went directly from Thomas’ ear to his cock. “That’s naughty. Aren’t you meant to be working?”

“Fuck work.” _Fuck me,_ Thomas added, mentally. _Or you._ He wasn’t bothered about the logistics.

“Oh, excuse me.” A voice broke in. Jimmy pulled away and Thomas stepped back, his head spinning. He didn’t need to look to see who it was. “I’m sorry,” Sarah O’Brien went on, sounding completely unapologetic. She was smirking, too. Thomas could tell by her voice. “I didn’t know you had a…mate visiting.”

Thomas wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Can I help you, Sarah?”

She was dressed well, as always, in designer jeans and a black leather jacket. Thomas didn’t know how she afforded her clothes. He couldn’t imagine her counterfeit Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags selling any better than his knock-off Nikes, but maybe they did. Or maybe she had another source of income she wasn’t telling him about.

“I just wanted to pop by and say hi,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” She wasn’t sorry, she was thrilled, just as Thomas would have been if he’d chanced upon her with a guy, or a girl, or a fucking unicorn for all he knew. They were friends. They’d worked next-door to one another for years, but there was always something beneath the friendship, an edge of competition or animosity or something. Thomas couldn’t put his finger on it. She’d offered, apparently seriously, to have Phil murdered when he broke Thomas’ heart, but at the same time, she’d laughed herself sick over the incident with Pamuk and still brought it up, like it was some hilarious joke. Thomas loved Sarah, in a way, but he wouldn’t trust her to save his life.

“I’m Jimmy,” Jimmy said, oblivious to all this.

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy,” Sarah replied, without taking her eyes off Thomas. “I wanted to remind you about the party at Grantham’s tonight. Matthew texted me. He wants me to tell you he’s got in, I quote, ‘a load of the good shit, the stuff Thomas likes.’”

Thomas felt himself redden. “Right. Thanks.”

“I don’t know what he means by that.”

Of course she bloody did. “Thanks for passing it on.”

“I’m sure Grantham wouldn’t mind if you brought a friend along,” Sarah continued. “The more the merrier, right? Anyway, Edith wants to impress this man from the telly.” Edith thought the Granthams should have their own reality TV show. Edith had been off her nut since her husband Tony left her three days after their six-million-pound televised wedding. “I’m sure Jimmy would be very…” She flicked her eyes up and down Jimmy’s body. “Impressive.”

“That’s great. Thank you, Sarah.”

“See you later.” Sarah left, grinning. Thomas knew this little interlude had just made her day, if not her month.

When she’d gone, Thomas looked down at Jimmy. “Sorry…” he began.

Jimmy shook his head. “It’s okay.” He stood up, close enough to Thomas that their bodies touched from their chests all the way to their feet. “I should be going anyway. I’m meant to be at work, too.” He moved past Thomas, brushing against him with a firmness that could only have been deliberate.

“Do you want to go?” Thomas blurted out.

“What?”

“To the party. It’ll be right chavvy, they’re total gits, but it might be fun, too.” Thomas swallowed. “And if it’s not, we can always fuck off out of there. Right?” Jimmy was a virtual stranger, but Thomas knew he didn’t want to lose him, not again.

Jimmy was uncertain, Thomas could tell. His eyes flicked from one box of shoes to another, then to Thomas’ face. “All right,” he finally said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

Thomas wanted to jump for joy. He settled for reaching into the nearest box of Reeboks. “Here.” He rifled through the box until he came up with a pair in Jimmy’s size. He remembered it.

“I thought you said no refunds.”

“Yeah.” Thomas was pleased with his relaxed, joking tone. It was nothing like how he felt. “But I’ve got a very good exchange policy.”

Jimmy took the shoes. “I’ll come back here later.”

“About eight.” Thomas was inspired to push his luck. “Unless you want to go for a drink first?”

“I’ll see you at eight,” Jimmy replied. Thomas watched him go, unabashedly admiring his tightly-clad arse. Once he’d gone, Thomas reached for a cigarette, willed his erection into subsidence, and waited for Sarah to come back and gloat.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas wanted to impress Jimmy.

This revelation came to him as he sat in McDonald’s with Sarah. Sarah O’Brien was the only adult Thomas knew who ate Chicken McNuggets, but she did it with such a menacing, _fuck off_ air that he hadn’t the heart, or the balls, to make fun of her for it.

As they sat there, Sarah with her nuggets leafing through the Sun and Thomas with his Big Mac looking out the window, he realized how much he wanted Jimmy to like him. Which was stupid. Jimmy was a little shit, a grifter. He was good for a snog, he might be good for a fuck, but he wasn’t good for anything else.

“Your problem,” Sarah said, as if she’d read his mind, “is that you’re too romantic.”

Thomas snorted into his drink. “I don’t think.”

“You are, though. You’re a soppy git. I bet you’ve already worked out how the two of you’ll live happily ever after.”

“No.” He had. Thomas was going to chuck the counterfeit shoe business, Jimmy would give up bicycle messenger-ing and they’d live a life of luxury in the countryside. He was a little fuzzy on how they would get the money to do all this, but that was a minor detail.

“You think any guy who looks at you twice has to be in love with you.”

“No, I don’t.”

“When all he wants is a blowjob.”

“Shut up, Sarah.”

“And a free pair of shoes.”

Thomas dipped his chips into his ketchup, angrily enough that a spot splashed onto the sleeve of his shirt. His good shirt, the one he’d changed into for Grantham’s party. Thomas sighed and reached for a serviette. Sarah looked up. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, is all. Not over a worthless little slag like that.”

“It’s okay.” Thomas forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

But he wasn’t. He was nervous—palm sweatingly, head achingly nervous—when he went back to the lockup to meet Jimmy. Thomas wanted a drink, or, better yet, a line, but he didn’t have any coke, of course, and it didn’t seem smart to start drinking now. Instead, he lit up a cigarette and leaned against the graffiti-laden brick wall, waiting.

Eight o’clock turned into ten past eight, and then twenty past. He’s not turning up. The words repeated themselves over and over in Thomas’ head, like one of his flatmate William’s fucking mantras. He’s not coming. You’re a fucking idiot to ever think he would. At twenty to nine, Thomas stubbed out his third cigarette and tossed the end into the gutter. Sarah would crow herself hoarse. Still, he had to go to the party. He didn’t want to get on Grantham’s bad side, and, anyway, Matthew had promised good shit. Thomas could go there and drown his loneliness in vodka and coke. It had always worked before.

He was about to leave when he heard footsteps in the alleyway. Thomas turned. Jimmy was there, running towards him in a shiny silver shirt, tight jeans and a pair of very familiar red Reebok Crossfits. “Sorry I’m late.” Breathless, Jimmy came to a stop in front of Thomas. He fidgeted, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again. “I’m shit with time.”

If it had been anybody else, Thomas would gone mental. With Jimmy, he just smiled. “That’s okay.”

Jimmy raised his hand, like he expected Thomas to high-five him, then lowered it immediately. Thomas leaned in for a kiss, but Jimmy turned his head, and the kiss landed in Jimmy’s hair. “Let’s go,” Jimmy said. He walked away so quickly, Thomas had to hurry to catch up.

The Granthams lived in Croydon, on land they’d got by knocking down half a dozen other houses. Their home was a gleaming monstrosity, all white marble columns and black onyx floors. When Thomas pushed the doorbell, “Ode to Joy” sounded somewhere deep in the mansion. He and Jimmy stood silently between the two jade lions and waited for a reply.

Thomas had never known anybody with an actual butler. He hadn’t even thought they existed anymore, but the Granthams had one. His name was Mr. Carson, and he never failed to make it clear that Thomas was as important to him as anything he’d ever coughed up after a hard night on the town.

“Mr. Barrow. How nice to see you again.” Carson spoke between gritted teeth, the butler equivalent, Thomas assumed, of flipping the bird.

“And you, Mr. Carson.” Thomas stepped inside, onto the black-and-white chequerboard floor. A sweeping staircase with shining brass bannisters disappeared upstairs, like something out of a movie.

“And who might this be?” Carson looked suspiciously at Jimmy, who was staring upwards at the twelve-foot ceilings. They were decorated with a painstaking recreation of the Sistine Chapel, but all of the heads had been replaced with images of the Granthams and their friends, relations and enemies. Thomas himself was a cherub somewhere. He could never find it, though.

“This is my friend. Mr…” Thomas realized he didn’t know Jimmy’s last name.

“Kent,” Jimmy put in.

“Thomas!” Cora Grantham tottered towards them in nine-inch stilettos. Her lower half was encased in skin-tight striped leggings; on her upper half she wore—barely—a leopard-print jacket so low-cut, Thomas could see the still-recent scars from her latest boob job. “Hello, darling.” She greeted Thomas with a kiss and a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume. “You’re terribly late, you know. Matthew was afraid you weren’t coming.”

“Here I am.”

“And you’ve brought a date.” She reached out a hand, complete with impeccable blood-red manicure.

All of the Grantham money was Cora’s. As far as Thomas understood it, she was the offspring of an American businessman of questionable ethics, who’d come to England from New York or Chicago in the 1960s. Cora held the purse strings, but she let her husband have an allowance for his little businesses, the counterfeit shoe and handbag operations and his line of designer clothing for dogs. She kept her hand in the legitimate family empire: the O’Crawley’s chain of faux-Irish pubs, which could be found up and down the country.

“This is Jimmy Kent,” Thomas said.

“Jimmy.” Cora repeated, smiling. She was a genuinely good person, in Thomas’ estimation. Tasteless, but good. “Welcome. I think Matthew and Tom are in the library.”

“Yeah.” Thomas’ embarrassment returned. “Maybe I’ll see them later.” He steered Jimmy towards the ballroom, which was belching smoke and pulsing strobe lights through the wide-open doors.

The ballroom was huge, larger than all the flats Thomas had ever lived in combined. The floor, Robert had told him once, had been imported from Malaysia and had cost more than the GDP of several small countries.

“I don’t mind if you get high,” Jimmy said, as they moved through the mist.

“Do you…” Thomas didn’t know why he should feel so awkward about this. He never had before. “I mean, do you like…”

“I smoke a joint every now and then,” Jimmy replied. “Not the heavier stuff, though. But I don’t care if you do.”

“Maybe later,” Thomas repeated.

The strobe lights stuttered to a stop, replaced by swirling coloured spotlights. A recent X-Factor winner or loser, Thomas couldn’t remember which, took the stage. The youngest Grantham daughter, Sybil, tried to pull her older sister Mary into a dance, but Mary resisted, her body ramrod-stiff and a grimace on her face.

“Can I get you a drink?” Thomas offered.

“Gin and tonic.” Thomas was surprised. It was an unexpectedly old-fashioned choice, genteel.

Heading for the bar, Thomas saw Grantham’s financial manager, Elsie Hughes, sitting with his solicitor, Anna Smith, and John Bates, the general manager of the O’Crawley’s pubs. Thomas gave the women a wave. They were kind; they’d once found him crying over Phil in the unisex toilets of Cora Grantham’s office, and had plied him with tea and chocolate biscuits. Then Cora had taken them all to lunch at the Ivy to ogle soap opera stars and talk about how men were shit. John Bates, on the other hand, considered Thomas a petty criminal and a leech and never hesitated to make his opinion known. He turned ostentatiously away as Anna waved back.

Edith, Grantham’s middle daughter, swung into Thomas’ path, dressed in a spangly gold mini-dress and towering Jimmy Choos. They were authentic. Thomas would know. “This is Mike,” she slurred. “He’s a producer with MTV. He’s going to give us a show, aren’t you, Mike?” She threw an arm around the neck of the man beside her and pulled him close. He was middle-aged, older than Thomas certainly, with gel-spiked hair and a paisley shirt that could only have been ironic. “Oh my God,” Edith shrieked, before Mike could answer. “Thomas, is that your boyfriend over there? He’s gorge. Would he be on the show?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Thomas replied. He let them stagger away, Edith’s arm clasped firmly around Mike’s neck and Mike clinging just as determinedly to her waist.

Sarah was standing at the bar, next to an obviously pregnant ginger-haired woman. “There you are.” Sarah stubbed out a cigarette and turned to Thomas. “What, did you stop off for a quickie on the way over here?”

“No.” Thomas couldn’t bring himself to get riled up, not when he had Jimmy waiting for him.

“But then again,” the pregnant woman said, evidently to Sarah, “I could always have an open adoption, right? I mean, I’ve heard of those. I could still be a part of the baby’s life…”

“Enjoy your evening, Sarah.” Thomas smiled and turned to the bartender.

He ordered a G and T for Jimmy and a martini for himself. It seemed a bit more sophisticated than his usual vodka shots, and Jimmy, apparently liked sophistication. He took the drinks and was about to go back to Jimmy when he heard an unmistakable voice beside him.

“Hello, darling.” Phil hadn’t changed. He was dressed the same as always, like John Travolta in a pimp’s costume, wearing a white suit with a flowered shirt open halfway down his chest. Big, jewelled rings decorated nearly every one of his fingers. He gave Thomas a greasy smile.

Thomas ground his teeth. “Hello, Phil.”

“Haven’t seen you about for a bit. How’s business?”

“Same as always.”

“Oh, dear. I do sympathize.” Phil was rich. Phenomenally rich, even richer than the Granthams. It had all come from shady real estate deals, buying up council estates and parks and public land to turn into luxury flats. Thomas had met him at a party like this several years earlier, and they’d hit it off. He’d loved Phil’s money, but he wasn’t a grifter. He’d loved Phil, too, until the moment Phil took his heart and ripped it in half. “I must say, though,” Phil went on, “I’m rather surprised to see you raiding primary schools for your dates.”

“Fuck off, Phil.”

“My apologies. He must be in at least, what, the sixth form?”

Anger rose in Thomas. He gripped the glasses tighter. “You’re a bastard.”

Phil shrugged. “Yes, well, so are you, darling.” Phil moved in, close enough that Thomas was engulfed in a cloud of Clive Christian cologne. “You were ready to shop your boss to the police for me, if you remember.”

“I remember.” Phil was the one who’d wanted him to, so he could take over the counterfeit goods market in north London. He’d promised Thomas a lot in return, showering him with fancy meals and fancy holidays abroad and a brand new, real Rolex. Then, he’d stopped.

“I suppose you also remember you tried to blackmail me?” Phil grinned, sharklike. “And that you were stupid enough to put all the photographs on one USB? I do hope you’ve learned a bit since then. Not that I suppose little boys are worth blackmailing. Perhaps you could get him to give you his collection of toy trains.”

Thomas walked away. He had to, otherwise there would have been a scene, and Thomas was not going to make a scene in front of Jimmy. Phil wasn’t worth it. It was bad enough that, when Thomas handed Jimmy his G and T, Jimmy asked, “Who’s that?”

“Who?” Thomas asked, falsely innocent.

“That.” Thomas’ hopes were dashed. Jimmy looked pointedly at Phil, who’d sidled up to the bar and was knocking back whisky. He drained one and held out his glass for another.

“An ex.”

“A good ex, or a bad ex?”

Phil raised his glass in their direction.

“A bad one,” Thomas said. Very bad. Phil was right, Thomas had played his part in what had happened, but only because Phil had hurt him first. Thomas would have stayed with Phil forever, if he’d wanted it. Phil was the one who’d broken it off, meeting Thomas for dinner at the Ritz one evening and saying, very simply, “It’s over.” Thomas hadn’t taken it well. He had, in fact, been barred from the Ritz as a result of it, but it wasn’t as though that was one of his favourite haunts.

“Oh.” Jimmy finished his drink, all in one gulp. He put the empty glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and looked at Thomas. His eyes flashed under the coloured lights, blue then green then red. “Want to give him something worth looking at?”

The X-Factor winner or loser—or she might have been on Britain’s Got Talent, now that Thomas thought about it—transitioned into a slower, sultry song. Jimmy picked up a folding chair and said, “Sit.”

Thomas sat.

Jimmy took away Thomas’ drink and straddled him, his feet planted on either side of the chair. He was taller this way and he put his hands under Thomas’ chin, angling Thomas’ mouth up for a kiss. Thomas kissed back, winding his hands into the back of Jimmy’s slippery shiny shirt. Jimmy lowered himself onto Thomas’ lap. Then, he began to move.

He wasn’t exactly on-beat, but Thomas was in no position to judge musicianship. Jimmy ground their crotches together rhythmically. Within an instant, Thomas was rock hard, straining the front of his jeans and leaking already. He had no idea how he would ever stand up, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It didn’t matter whether Phil, or anybody else, was looking. He and Jimmy existed in their own private world.

A rivulet of sweat ran down Thomas’ back, sliding between his shoulder blades. Jimmy moved to Thomas’ neck, sucking what was bound to be an impressive bruise onto his skin. His fingers slipped beneath Thomas’ shirt, caressing the hair on his stomach and flirting with the edge of his waistband. All the while, Jimmy kept up the steady grind, pushing his own growing erection against Thomas’ until Thomas thought he was going to come, right there in his pants like a teenager. He had never been so turned on in his life. His heart pounded fit to burst. He couldn’t think; he could barely breathe. Jimmy moved his face again, back up to kiss Thomas’ mouth. Thomas parted his lips, ready to receive him, and someone said, “Hiya, Jimmy. I thought that was you.”

Thomas had never seen anybody move so fast. Jimmy was up like a shot, leaving Thomas’ aggressively tented trousers on full display. “Alfie.” Jimmy was breathless, his cheeks flaming red. “What are you doing here?”

The man beside them smiled. “My Daisy got a job with a catering company and she asked me to come along. They were short of waiters.” Alfie’s eyes went to Thomas. Thomas angled his arm over his lap. “You’re the bloke with the cheap shoes, aren’t you? I didn’t know you and Jimmy were together.”

“We’re not,” Jimmy said, quickly. “I have to go.” Thomas stared after him.

“I love the shoes, by the way,” Alfie went on, apparently oblivious. “They’re ace.” He held up his foot, wobbling awkwardly on the other. “I’m wearing them right now…”

“That’s great, Alfie.” Thomas thought of his grandmother, of dead puppies, of Sarah waxing her bikini line. Anything he could to get his erection down. He didn’t need to work too hard. Jimmy’s unceremonious abandonment had done a fair bit by itself. “See you later, mate,” Thomas said, although Alfie wasn’t his and Thomas fervently hoped he never laid eyes on him again.

Thomas searched the main floor, in the loo and in the dining room and even in the kitchen, where a red-faced woman was barking orders at a roomful of people in chef’s hats. Jimmy was nowhere. Thomas ended up in the library where, as promised, Robert’s son-in-law Matthew sat slumped in an armchair.

The term “library” was a bit of a misnomer. There were no books in the room, but there was an obscenely large television, currently playing a cricket match in what looked like the Indian league, as well as hundreds upon hundreds of Blu-Ray discs lining the walls. Tom Branson, the head of design for the O’Crawley’s pubs, lay passed out on the patterned Persian rug. Robert himself sat upright in a corner of the long white leather sofa, staring intently at the television as if nothing else existed.

“There you are.” Matthew glanced up, barely, from a detailled examination of the back of his hand. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“What are you on?” It didn’t seem like coke. Matthew could barely keep his eyes open.

Matthew shrugged. “Something new. It’s nice. It’s all…” He waved a hand. “Nice.”

Thomas looked at Branson. He appeared to be breathing, at least. “Is he on the same thing?”

Matthew shook his head. “He’s drunk. You want something?”

It was there, as promised, laid out on the mirrored coffee table in front of him. Normally, Thomas wouldn’t hesitate. Normally, he spent entire parties with Matthew and Branson, hoovering up thousands of pounds with his nose and not giving a fuck about anything else. Today was different. Today, he gave a fuck about Jimmy.

Thomas reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes. “Give me one of those,” Matthew said, extending a hand in Thomas’ direction.

“You don’t smoke.”

“Not yet.”

Thomas passed over a cigarette. Matthew examined the end of it intently, as if it held the secrets to the universe. Thomas lit up and offered the lighter to Matthew, who shook his head. “Not yet,” he repeated. He began to pluck strings of tobacco out of the cigarette and strew them, like confetti, onto the rug beside Branson.

A quiet cough came from the doorway. Thomas looked over his shoulder; Jimmy was there, holding a gin and tonic in one hand and a martini in the other. He looked at Branson, then his eyes slid to Robert, staring motionless at the television screen, and Matthew, now staring motionless at the unlit cigarette. “It’s all right,” Thomas said. “We’re alone.”

Jimmy stepped over Branson and sat next to Thomas. He handed Thomas his drink and took a large mouthful of his own.

“I’m sorry I ran off,” Jimmy said, after a long moment. “I didn’t think I’d see anybody I know.”

“It’s okay.” Thomas could understand being embarrassed. He got embarrassed himself when he thought what everybody in the ballroom had witnessed. Embarrassed, and a little smug. “I’ve never done nothing like that before.”

“Neither have I. I’m not gay.”

“What?” In an instant, empathy became irritation. “What do you mean?”

Jimmy frowned. “What I said. I’m straight.”

“The fuck you are.” And pigs flew. And the Granthams were arbiters of class. And Matthew was a pillar of sober society.

“I am.” The frown deepened, marring that beautiful face.

Thomas’ annoyance began to take root, to grow into something stronger. “So, you’re just a grifter, then?”

“Well, if I am, then you must be a gullible old perv.”

Thomas couldn’t believe this; at the same time, he believed it completely. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. He shook his head, refusing to feel sad about something he should have known all along. “You’re a slag, Jimmy.” Sarah had been right. She’d enjoy that.

The slap was so quick, Thomas didn’t see it coming. He would have doubted it had happened at all if not for the sting in his cheek. He raised a hand to his face. Jimmy looked away, drained the rest of his drink and looked like he needed another. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But don’t call me that. Please.”

Thomas’ heart, on the verge of being broken yet again, swelled instead. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not a slag. I think you’re…” Stunning. Beautiful. Amazing. “Great.”

The moment stretched, on and on. Jimmy kept his eyes on his empty glass. Then, suddenly, they came up, and a smile crept onto his face. “I don’t think you’re…what did I say?”

“A gullible old perv.”

“I think you’re…” Jimmy paused, blushing. It did nothing but help his looks. “I’ve never done that before,” he went on. “Kiss a stranger, I mean. A strange man, anyway. You needn’t look like you don’t believe me. It’s true.”

“But you were so good.” Thomas remembered not only that first kiss in the lockup, but the flirting that had come with it. Jimmy had been a pro. Thomas had nothing for admiration for him. He himself was the world’s worst flirter; several men had told him so directly. Usually while Thomas was trying to feel them up under a table.

“I couldn’t help myself. And it fucking shocked me, I tell you. Those shitty shoes broke after two days, but it took me three weeks to work up the courage to come back.” Jimmy looked awkward, uncertain, as if he didn’t know how Thomas was going to take this news. Thomas could have told him. He was in love.

Thomas knew he was gazing at Jimmy like something out of those soppy films William downloaded with the express purpose, it seemed, of crying over them, but he couldn’t help himself. When Jimmy leaned in for a kiss, it took all of Thomas’ self-control not to gather him up in a romance-movie embrace.

“Can we go back to your place?” Jimmy panted, breathless, when he pulled away.

“It’s too far.” Thomas couldn’t wait that long. He stubbed out his cigarette on the coffee table. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“It’s not our house.” Jimmy sounded scandalized. It made him even more endearing.

“They’ve got plenty of room.”

“Why,” Matthew said suddenly, his voice strangely loud, “don’t we have kangaroos in England?”

“Yes!” Robert cried at the same moment, standing and pumping his fist. He sat down again without so much as glancing at anybody else in the room.

“Let’s go,” Jimmy agreed, and took Thomas by the hand.

Edith and Mike were on the stairs, so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t appear to notice Thomas and Jimmy squeezing past them. On the landing, Thomas kissed Jimmy again, sliding his hands beneath Jimmy’s shirt. It was enough to knock them off balance. They staggered into the wall with a crash. Jimmy smiled against Thomas’ lips. Thomas reached back blindly, fumbling for the nearest doorknob. They door opened and they fell into the room, still attached at the mouth.

“Oi,” a woman’s voice said. “I fink one of us has got the wrong room.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder. Robert’s mother, an ancient woman with blue-rinsed hair, sat on an orange suede sofa, wearing a purple velour tracksuit. Some sort of loud game show, with shrieking and flashing lights and bright colours, blared on a television only slightly smaller than the one downstairs. On the table beside her was a bottle of wine and a box of Milk Tray. “If it’s me,” the woman went on, her gaze icy, “will you let me know if Trish wins the holiday to the Costa del Sol?”

“Sorry,” Thomas murmured. He pushed Jimmy out and shut the door behind them.

The next room was unoccupied, save for a four-poster bed piled with shaggy, zebra-printed blankets. A mirror took up most of the ceiling. Thomas pulled away from Jimmy, just far enough to look at his face. Beads of sweat had gathered on Jimmy’s forehead.

“Fuck me,” Thomas murmured. He was hungry for it, starving. _He can call himself straight_ , Thomas thought, _or bisexual, or pan- or omni- or whatever the fuck he wants. He’s mine._

Thomas backed up towards the bed, pulling Jimmy with him. The mattress sloshed unexpectedly as they landed, taking Thomas aback for a moment. _Well,_ he thought, _I’ve never done it on a waterbed before._ Thomas reached for Jimmy’s zipper, but Jimmy caught Thomas’ wrists in his hands. The hold was more painful than arousing, with Jimmy’s nails digging into Thomas’ flesh. “I’m sorry.” Jimmy’s face was pale. “I can’t do this.”

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Jimmy jumped off the waterbed, leaving it rolling and rocking like a choppy sea behind him. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. He opened his mouth, as if to say more. Nothing came. Instead, he turned and left.

Thomas was going to die. He was going to physically perish from a terminal case of blue balls. He knew he should be angry about that, or at least irritated, but all he could feel was sorry for Jimmy, who was obviously in a state. “Jimmy, wait.” Thomas struggled off the bed and followed him. The hallway was empty but, in the distance, he heard the unmistakable slapping of a shoe with a detached sole.

Thomas followed the sound, along the hallway and down the stairs. “Jimmy!” He called, when he caught sight of him, crossing the foyer towards the front door. Jimmy paused. Mr. Carson appeared out of nowhere, gliding towards Jimmy as if he was on wheels. Jimmy’s eyes came up. For a fraction of a second, his gaze met Thomas’ and Thomas wished he was a better man, a more sensitive man. The kind of man who would have understood the expression on Jimmy’s face. It was indecipherable to him. As Thomas watched, Jimmy lifted his foot and ripped off the torn sole. He tossed it behind him and ran through the front door, off into the night.

He was too late, but still, Thomas moved past Edith and Mike and went down to the foyer. He bent to pick up the detached sole. Tears gathered behind Thomas’ eyes, threatening to spill over, but before they had chance, there were footsteps behind him.

“Oh, dear. Is he in a playground strop? Never mind, I’m sure if you buy him a nice lolly…”

Thomas turned, made a fist, and punched Philip Crowborough in the face.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m afraid I’m just not sure.” The woman, middle-aged and overdressed, looked at the shoes like she was making a momentous decision, something that would affect the rest of her life.

“Isobel.” Her companion glanced at his watch for the third time in the last minute. He was a bit older, white haired with a bushy moustache. “We’re going to be late.”

“The show’s not until seven, Richard.”

“But we need to get all the way to the West End. In this traffic.”

Isobel ignored him. Instead, she looked at Thomas with an expression of such earnestness, Thomas felt vaguely guilty, although he had no idea why. “I’m very concerned with fair trade,” she said. “Can you tell me if these shoes were made ethically?”

“Well, I work for peanuts, if that’s what you’re asking.” Thomas smiled, to show this was a joke. The truth, but a joke nevertheless. Isobel’s expression grew even more earnest. She reached out with her spare hand, placing it over Thomas’.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Richard sighed. “Isobel…”

Thomas heard footsteps in the alleyway outside, and sighed with relief. _Thank Christ. Sarah._

“If you can’t make up your mind about the shoes,” he said, “my colleague’s got some lovely handbags next door. You might like to look at them instead. Here she is now.”

“Maybe.” Consideration creased Isobel’s forehead. _Oh, for fuck’s sake, you middle-class cow…_ Thomas’ thoughts trailed off. It wasn’t Sarah. Instead, Phil Crowborough came in smiling, as greasy as always.

“Hello, darling.” Phil was in jeans today, which had probably cost more than Thomas had earned in a lifetime, with crocodile shoes and a white Versace shirt.

Thomas clenched his hands at his sides. “Fuck off.”

Phil’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s not very nice. I thought you might have missed me.”

“If I ever did, _darling,_ all I’ve got to do is look in the fucking mirror.” Thomas’ left eye was surrounded by pockmarks, wounds left from being punched by Phil’s ring-bedecked hand at the Granthams’ party. Thomas didn’t know why they bothered outlawing brass knuckles when it was legal to wear huge fucking rings on every finger.

“You hit me first. I don’t know why.”

“Isobel, we really ought to go…”

Rage ran through Thomas, cold and then hot, hotter and hotter until he felt like his face was on fire.“Oh, you fucking know why, you poncy fucking git.” It was everything Phil had said about Jimmy, but it was more than that. It was all they’d had between them.

“Isobel, I really think…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phil maintained.

“Isobel…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Thomas couldn’t contain it any longer. These people had to get out of here, before he did something he would regret. Or not regret, more likely. “Isobel, take the fucking shoes and fuck off. Phil, just fuck off.”

“All right.” Isobel’s tone was calm and soothing. Thomas remained unsoothed. “Clearly, you’re not feeling validated as a person. Perhaps we could chat…”

“Isobel!” Richard’s voice was firm. Isobel met Thomas’ eye, conspiratorially, as if to say, “we’re all in this together.” Which they really weren’t. “Here.” Isobel reached into her handbag and brought out a pile of money, too much, and a little piece of cardboard. “If you ever want to talk, my number is there.” It was, along with her name: Isobel Crawley, Psychologist. As soon as they’d gone, Thomas tossed it into the bin and pocketed the money.

Phil was still there. Thomas hoped that by ignoring him, he might go away, but instead, he stood there. And stood there, and stood there. Thomas refused to look at him, to acknowledge his presence in any way. Finally, Phil said, “I’m sorry.”

Thomas looked up. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t make me say it again.” He deserved to say it again. Thomas deserved to hear it, over and over and over until the end of time for all Phil had done to him. But he’d never even thought to hear it once. So he supposed that was a start. “Do you have anything to say to me?” Phil asked.

Thomas laughed, not because anything was funny but because of the sheer bloody gall of the man. “What do you think?”

“You took all my private pictures, Thomas, that I gave to you out of love, and you were going to blackmail me with them.”

“Because you hurt me.” Hurt was a light word. Hurt was what happened when you tripped and knocked your knee on the edge of a table. Phil had bloody destroyed him, broken his heart into a million pieces Thomas had never thought he would ever put back together. Until Jimmy came along. And then Jimmy had smashed the pieces into dust.

“It’s not all about you, Thomas.”

“It never is.”

Phil sighed. He rubbed his eyes, as if he was tired. Thomas noticed his hair was thinning on top. “All right. Let’s start over.” Phil sighed heavily. “I need your help.” His eyes came back, meeting Thomas’ for a moment before flicking away again, across the boxes and boxes of shoes. “I’m sure that makes your fucking day, but I do.”

“What?”

Phil owned half of London and a quarter of the rest of the country. He played polo with Prince William and yachted with former American presidents. There was nothing Thomas could do for him.

“I’m in love.” Phil said the words and left them there, for Thomas to mull over apparently. Phil ran a hand through his hair and shoved his hands in the pockets of his too-tight jeans.

Thomas was at a loss for words. It happened so rarely, it felt like an event. He could think of literally nothing to say. Phil sighed heavily, as if he was the put-upon party, and continued. “He’s a DJ. He caught me quite by surprise. I know you’ll understand.”

This was a joke. A bizarrely specific set-up for “You’ve Been Framed.” Or Sarah. This was the sort of weird practical joke Sarah would play, although he couldn’t imagine how she’d got Phil to go along with it. “So…” Thomas said, when the silence stretched, “you’re in love with a…a DJ.” Phil nodded, wretchedly. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“I need someone to talk to him for me. You know, build me up a bit.”

Reality pierced the bubble of confusion enveloping Thomas, and reality was annoyed as fuck. “Get one of your friends to do that.”

Colour came to Phil’s cheeks and to his forehead, disappearing up into his receding hairline. “I haven’t got any.”

“You have loads of friends, Phil.” There were always people around him, buzzing like flies. It had driven Thomas mad, back in the day when all he wanted was for them to be alone.

“They aren’t real friends, OK? Do you think I’d be asking you if I had options?”

Thomas didn’t. A knot of something, of some vague, uncomfortable feeling, appeared in the back of his mind. It was the way he’d felt when he was a boy and he’d sneaked into his father’s repair shop and broken one of the expensive VCRs or cassette players. _That’s guilt, you arse,_ Thomas told himself.

But he had no reason to feel guilty. If Phil was alone, then it was Phil’s own fault, for using everybody around him and turning off anybody who might actually care for him. _Good fucking luck, Mr. DJ,_ Thomas thought. _You’re in for a wild thrill ride here._ “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Thomas headed for the door to the lockup, which forced Phil to walk with him.

“I can give you something in return.”

“You don’t have anything I want.” At one time, he had been dazzled by Phil’s wealth, by his houses and his cars and his extravagant gifts, but Thomas was older now. Wiser. Maybe. He reached for the rolling door.

“I know everything about Jimmy Kent.”

“What?” Thomas dropped the door. It clashed down, banging hard against the pavement.

“Thought that’d get your attention.”

Thomas shook his head and slipped the padlock on the door. “What are you talking about?”

“I looked him up. Rather, I had an associate look him up for me. I know where he’s from, I know where he lives. I know why he ran out on you that night at Grantham’s.” Phil couldn’t possibly know that, but the smug smirk on his face told Thomas he thought he did.

Phil’s words planted a bud of hope in Thomas. He wrenched it out of the ground and stomped on it before it could take root. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“What?”

“It’s been a month.” If Jimmy wanted to see him, then Jimmy knew where he was. He hadn’t come. That was all the explanation Thomas needed.

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“If he’s not interested, he’s not interested.” He wasn’t. Jimmy had made that very clear.

“You’re lying, Thomas. I saw that bloody lap dance.” They walked down the alleyway, past Sarah’s lockup. She stared out at them, her eyebrows drawn and her mouth compressed into a hard line. Thomas met her eye, shrugged, and moved on. “I’d crawl over broken glass for Fred, and we’ve never even touched. You can’t tell me you don’t want another shot at Jimmy.”

Of course Thomas wanted it. He thought of Jimmy all the time. Jimmy was in his dreams every night, and every morning, Thomas woke up with a hard-on of epic proportions. But he wasn’t going to force himself on Jimmy if Jimmy didn’t want him. He wasn’t a fucking rapist, for Christ’s sake.

 _But what,_ a little voice in Thomas’ head said, _if Jimmy doesn’t know what he wants?_

They reached the end of the alley and stepped out, onto the pavement. A row of shops stretched down the road to the Tube station on the corner, including Kemal Pamuk’s shining new kebab shop. “Do you want something to eat?” Thomas asked, impulsively. It wasn’t the Ivy or the Ritz or anywhere else Phil was used to, but maybe Phil needed to get used to some new sorts of places. Thomas couldn’t picture a DJ having tea with the fucking Queen.

Not Queen Elizabeth, anyway.

“All right,” Phil said, and they stepped into the shop. Pamuk gave Thomas meaningful looks as he ordered, and when he handed over the food, he said, “Free Coca-Cola, yes? For you and your date.” Pamuk winked. “I am happy to see you with a nice man.”

Thomas didn’t bother explaining. He took the kebabs to a table by the window, which Phil had brushed off with a paper serviette. “So.” Thomas sat down across from him. “What’s this Fred like, then?”

***

dABerNoN’s was the kind of club Thomas would have hated when he was young. He hated it even more now. Heavy bass pulsed through the floor and up through his body, rattling his bones and echoing in his sternum. The place stank of sweat and booze. The dance floor was packed with a sea of humanity—young humanity—ebbing and flowing together with their clothes plastered to their skin and their glow sticks held high. A few of them were popping pills, but Thomas couldn’t see a line of coke anywhere.

“There he is.” Phil’s voice caught, as if he gazed upon some vision of rare unearthly beauty. Thomas followed his gaze.

The man in the DJ booth was older than Thomas had expected, closer in age to Phil and Thomas himself than to, say, Jimmy. He was dark haired and handsome enough, although Thomas personally wouldn’t have gone for him unless he was hard up. Still, Phil stared like he was the best-looking man on the planet. “I’ll get some drinks,” Phil said, finally. “You go up and see him. Please.” The last word was added in a strange tone, halfway between begging and contempt.

Thomas crossed the floor, manoeuvring his way through the writhing bodies. A man, tall and lanky, bumped into him. Thomas turned, to tell him to watch where he was fucking going, and their eyes met.

Thomas felt as though he had been slapped across the face. The man was gorgeous, but it was more than that. There was something about him, something deep and soulful about his face and his expression that shook Thomas to his core, that made him dizzy and made him forget, for a moment, why he was here.

“Come on, Edward,” the man’s friend called. The man, Edward apparently, smiled a little. Then he was gone, swallowed up in the crowd. Thomas shook his head and carried on with his task.

For once, Thomas reminded himself, he held all the power. One word from him—the truth, for example—could destroy any chance Phil had with Fred. Even as he thought it, Thomas knew he wouldn’t do it. Phil had dangled Jimmy in front of him, and that was more enticing than any thought of revenge.

The DJ booth was elevated above the dance floor, closed off behind a wall of glass. Thomas climbed up the short flight of stairs. Fred was busy, spinning a disc with one hand and holding a pair of headphones to his ear with the other. Thomas hesitated. He didn’t know whether he should knock or clear his throat, but Fred looked up and said, “Hi. Come in.”

Thomas glanced around. He may as well have been on a spaceship. A huge panel of knobs and buttons and flashing coloured lights spread from one end of the booth to the other, with four turntables in the middle. It was dark, the only lights those on the boards. Fred took off his headphones and tossed them casually onto an empty turntable, as the music pounded around them.

“You’re Phil’s friend?”

“Yeah.” At least for the next ten minutes.

“Fred Kostavas.” Fred put out a hand. Jewelled rings sat on three of his fingers. _Oh good,_ Thomas thought. _They’ve got something in common._

There didn’t seem to be much else connecting Phil and Fred. Fred wore a torn “Moby” T-shirt and a pair of jeans that had been coloured all over with marker pen, like he was a naughty child who’d been drawing on his clothes. He had a nose ring and an eyebrow ring and a huge tattoo down one arm. Thomas couldn’t tell what it was meant to be. “So.” Thomas raised his voice over the music. “How did you meet Phil?”

"I went for a job interview in one of his buildings.”

“Oh.” Thomas hadn’t known Phil owned this sort of place, but he hadn’t seen Phil for a long time, and he was always on about expanding his investments.

“I’m trying to get out of this game. I never really liked it. I want to go into real estate.” Fred’s tone was surprisingly passionate, given that he was wearing a Moby T-shirt. _I’m here for Jimmy,_ Thomas reminded himself. _Not for these weirdos._ “I didn’t get the job,” Fred said. “But I got Phil.” He grinned and nudged Thomas.

“Wait.” Thomas blinked. “You already like him?”

“I think he’s brilliant.” Fred smiled fondly. “A bit of a dick, but sweet, too.”

“Do you want to fuck him?” There was no point in beating about the bush. Not when the area surrounding the bush was already, apparently, much flatter than Thomas had been led to believe.

Fred shrugged. “Sure. But I’d rather take him on a date first. I’m in love, man.” He feigned a swoon. At least, Thomas hoped he was feigning it.

“I’ll see you later, Fred.” He went back down the stairs and back into the throng.

Phil was near the bar, with two drinks in frosted glass mugs that lit up like UFOs, lights spinning and flashing, as he held them. “That was quick.” He sounded suspicious.

“I’m good.”

“Really?” Phil raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah. He’s hot for you.”

Phil glanced up to the DJ booth. “If you’re fucking me over…”

“I’m not, Phil. I swear. I’m happy for you.” That was even true, to some extent. “I guess you’re not that bad.” It took all types, and apparently Fred’s type was the kind of guy who would raze an orphanage to build an oxygen bar.

Phil handed him the mugs and reached into his pocket. He did something on his Blackberry, tapping madly for a moment, then put the phone away. “I sent you everything I have. But I’m warning you, Thomas, if you’re lying, I will fucking finish you.”

“I’m not lying. You’re well in there.” Thomas passed back the drinks and headed for the door. Before he reached it, he glanced back. Phil’s back was pressed against the glass of the DJ’s booth as he and Fred kissed like a couple of horny teenagers.

 _Right,_ Thomas thought. _Now it’s my turn._

***

It was inexplicably surreal, looking at somebody’s entire life laid out on the screen of an iPhone. More surreal still when that person was somebody you cared about the way Thomas cared about Jimmy.

He’d meant to go home first, where he could properly examine the information and give it the consideration it deserved. He hadn’t even made it down the street. He huddled in a bus shelter, ignoring the puking drunks and shrieking scantily-clad prostitutes and read the most intimate details of Jimmy’s life story.

Jimmy was an only child, and both his parents were dead. That brought a sadness to Thomas’ heart, but he didn’t linger on that part of Jimmy’s life. He flicked through school records and employment records until he arrived at a file Phil had marked: _This is the one you want._

It was a property record. A flat in Golders Green had been purchased jointly by Mr. James Kent and Mr. Laurence Anstruther in April 2010. Another record showed that the arrangement was altered in September 2011, with this Anstruther buying out Jimmy’s share. Shortly afterwards, in November 2011, a Mr. Padman Singh joined Anstruther as a co-owner of the flat.

What did it mean? That Jimmy and this Anstruther had been flatmates, then ceased to be and Anstruther had taken on somebody else? Why would Phil point that out? Why was that important? Thomas flicked to the next record in the file, and nearly dropped his phone.

He hung onto it, thank God, because the floor of the bus shelter was covered in a layer of muck so deep it must have dated back to prehistoric times. He breathed deeply, but he felt ill, a wave of nausea rising in him until he was certain he was going to be sick. Thomas swallowed hard. Tears gathered at the back of his eyes. He blinked them away. It was stupid to cry for somebody he barely knew. Thomas had never been renowned for his empathy, but all of it, every last shred he possessed, suddenly came to life and reached out to Jimmy.

It was a notice of an intention to register a civil partnership. The names on the form were James Kent and Laurence Anstruther, and the date of the intended registration was given four weeks after the intention was filed, as 21st August, 2011. Thomas scrolled on, but there was no further information on that topic. Jimmy’s employers were listed and current address was noted, but the flat where he lived now was registered to a property-hire firm. Then the file ended.

Thomas put his phone in his pocket and stood. Phil hadn’t lied. This was the explanation behind Jimmy’s fears, the explanation behind Jimmy, all there in a neat little package. Jimmy was going to marry a man. They’d registered their intent, they’d set a date, but the civil partnership hadn’t happened. A month later, Jimmy had moved out of their home; two months after that, somebody else had moved in.

Thomas had suffered a lot of pain in his life. He was alone most of the time; he had very few friends. He hated his job and the only man he’d ever loved, even a little bit, was head over heels for a DJ who wanted to be an estate agent. But Thomas hadn’t been blameless, and if he was honest, he could admit that most—if not all—of his problems were his own damn fault. Jimmy wasn’t like him. Jimmy was so good, and so kind, and Thomas wanted to kill this bastard who’d hurt him so badly.

Thomas couldn’t do that, of course, but he could go to Jimmy. That was what he would do. He would go to Jimmy now, tonight, and tell him he knew everything, that he understood. That Thomas would never hurt him the way this fucker had. That he would never hurt him at all. _And then,_ Thomas thought, _Jimmy can decide what he wants._

Jimmy’s flat was near Brent Cross, not too far from the lockup. It was a tower block, and, following the directions on the phone, Thomas took the lift to the tenth floor.

Phil’s folders gave Jimmy’s flat number as 1005, so Thomas strode up to the door with that number screwed onto it. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. He raised his hand to knock, and the door swung open. A woman in a sari with a baby on her hip looked at him. “Yeah?”

It took Thomas aback. He stammered. “I’m…I’m sorry, I’m looking for Jimmy. Kent.”

The woman shrugged. “Not here.” She slammed the door in his face.

Thomas looked at his phone again. It looked like 1005 to him, but that particular form had clearly been scanned in from a hard copy. Maybe the number was smudged. He went to 1008 instead, and knocked again.

This time, it was opened by a heavyset man with white hair, dressed only in underpants. His belly bulged over the waistband, thankfully obscuring what was below. “ _Kdo jste?_ ”

“Jimmy?” Thomas tried, speaking loudly in the hopes that would help the man understand. “Jimmy Kent?”

“ _Já ho neznám._ ” The man shut the door.

Thomas sighed and got out the phone again. He squinted at the number. It might be a nine, he supposed, or even a 7005, but the building had far fewer than seventy floors.

“Are you looking for Jimmy?”

Thomas turned around. A young woman was unlocking a door halfway down the hall. Blonde wisps of hair escaped from her bun, and she wore a white apron over an old-fashioned blue dress. “Yes. Do you know him?”

“I’m his flatmate. I’m just getting in from work.” Apparently noticing Thomas’ expression, she added, “I’m a costumed interpreter at the Museum of Victorian Life. My name’s Ivy.”

“Thomas.” He went over to her.

“Are you a boyfriend, or just a friend?” Ivy pushed the door open. The flat was dark.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Ah. That sounds like Jimmy.” She stepped in and flicked on the light. A kitchen, dining room and sitting room were all together in one medium-sized room. Three doors led off it. It was nicer than Thomas’ own flat, but not by much.

Ivy put her bags down and pulled off her apron. “You can come in, if you like. It doesn’t look like he’s home yet.”

Suddenly, this seemed like a bad idea. Nerves appeared out of nowhere, and for the first time, Thomas wondered if Jimmy might not actually want him to show up uninvited at his home. “Maybe I should come back later.”

“OK. But I don’t mind if you wait. I don’t think he’ll be long.” A baby wailed in one of the other flats. Down the hallway, the lift dinged. Ivy smiled. She was pretty enough. Thomas wondered if she and Jimmy had ever had an ill-advised fling. “He’s a lot of work, Thomas, but I think he’s worth it. I’d go for him myself, if he was straight.”

Thomas didn’t know what that meant, any of it. He swallowed, hard. He couldn’t make up his mind. Fortunately—or unfortunately—he didn’t have to. The lift doors slid open and, a moment later, Thomas sensed somebody behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Jimmy didn’t sound angry, or happy, or anything beyond totally and completely shocked.

Thomas turned. He’d just come off work, clearly. Jimmy was in his tight Spandex suit, a bicycle helmet under his arm. His eyes were wide and he looked panicked, as if he was ready to run off again at a moment’s notice. Thomas found himself holding up his hand, soothingly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “It’s OK, Jimmy. I know everything.”

“What do you mean, everything?”

Thomas glanced back at Ivy, who was watching raptly. He didn’t know how much she knew. He wasn’t about to spill all of Jimmy’s secrets. “Everything. About what happened to you.” The shock disappeared, not gradually but in one quick motion, to be completely replaced by anger. Jimmy’s face twisted with it, his forehead creasing and his mouth turning downwards. “I’m sorry,” Thomas said, although he didn’t know whether he was apologizing for what had happened, or for knowing about it.

“Fuck you,” Jimmy said, and ran.

He went for the stairs, pushing open the stairwell door and disappearing downwards. Thomas was right behind him but, once again, Jimmy was in better shape. The concrete stairs were narrow, the walls decorated liberally with graffiti. There was an odd, stale smell. Thomas ran down without thinking about it, following Jimmy floor after floor until, suddenly, Thomas couldn’t hear Jimmy’s feet anymore. _I’ve lost him,_ he thought. _Just like last time._ A pain shot through his side, and he slowed down, panting. Thomas went down another floor, and then another, just to be sure. He arrived at the ground floor. There was a narrow, cracked window in the door through which he could see the building’s foyer.

Thomas was about to push open the door and leave the building when he saw a flash of red Spandex.

Jimmy sat beneath the stairs, his knees pulled up and his back against the wall. The floor was grimy and strewn with assorted rubbish, but Thomas pushed back his squeamishness and sat down beside Jimmy. “What am I doing?” Jimmy asked. It didn’t sound as though the question was aimed at Thomas. “I’m being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Thomas said, automatically, before he realized that it might be better not to speak at all.

Jimmy shook his head. “A guy left me. So what? It happens to everyone. It doesn’t make me special.”

You are so special, Thomas thought, but he managed to keep from blurting that out. Jimmy looked at him. “I’m sorry I led you on. I was a prick to do that.”

“It’s all right.”

“Not really.” But Jimmy smiled, and Thomas’ heart soared like he’d conquered mountains. “I don’t go for blokes anymore. I can’t.”

Yes, you can. “Listen, Jimmy,” Thomas began, then realized he had no idea what to say. He reached out, tentatively. Jimmy let Thomas put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t touch him back. “It happened to me, too. Not like what happened to you, but a guy I loved hurt me.” He swallowed. It felt like he was walking on a knife’s edge, trying desperately not to say the wrong thing. “I know how it feels. I would never do it to you.”

“You don’t know that, Thomas.”

“I do. Seriously. I really, really do.” It was less eloquent than Thomas would have liked but the words at least sounded strong, decisive.

Jimmy sighed. “I can never give you what you want.”

Excitement rose in Thomas. _That’s not,_ he thought, _exactly a no._ “What do you think I want?”

Jimmy shook his head, but the smile grew, and he bumped his body lightly against Thomas’ “I know what you want. I can tell. You’re the kind of guy who wants hearts and flowers and a fucking engagement ring. And I’m not like that. Not anymore.” He bit his lip. The smile faded, suddenly, and Thomas yearned for it to return. “I like you loads, and I think you’re dead sexy.” The words went straight to Thomas’ heart, like a declaration of truest love. “I thought I could just fuck you and leave feelings out of it, but I don’t think you’re like that. You want love, right?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “I’m never going to be in love ever again.”

“OK,” Thomas said, not for any particular purpose beyond giving him the chance to gather his thoughts. “But what if we could be friends?”

“Friends?” That had surprised Jimmy. It surprised Thomas, too.

“We could try it. Just, you know, spend time together. See what happens.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Maybe not. But even if it doesn’t, I’ll be happy to spend time with you, Jimmy.”

“Really?”

“I swear it.”

“Friends?” Scepticism remained in Jimmy’s voice.

“Friends,” Thomas repeated, adamant. He even held out a hand for Jimmy to shake.

“I guess we can try it.” Jimmy shook Thomas’ hand. It wasn’t enough for Thomas, but it was a start. He squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder, and Jimmy climbed out from beneath the stairs. “How did you find out, anyway?” He walked towards the lifts. Thomas went with him, since Jimmy hadn’t asked him not to.

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether honesty was the best path to take, but he wasn’t going to begin this friendship with a lie. “My ex looked you up. He wanted me to help him land a guy he fancied, and he thought I would do it if he could tell me about you.” Thomas said the words evenly, as if they were a perfectly normal, perfectly rational explanation of events.

“The ex we met at that party?” Jimmy pushed the button for the lift.

“Yes.”

Jimmy was going to be furious, Thomas could sense it. His face was still, his expression neutral, but Thomas knew he was going to explode. Thomas couldn’t blame him. This was a gross violation of Jimmy’s privacy. Thomas might as well have crept into his flat while he slept and rifled through his things. _I should have lied,_ Thomas thought, miserably. But he didn’t know what he would have said.

The lift door slid open, and Jimmy stepped inside. Thomas followed him, full of hope. Jimmy didn’t kick him out. “Did you help him?” Jimmy said, finally, as the lift groaned to life.

"What?"

"Did you help him land the guy?"

"Yeah. But he didn’t really need my help. The guy already fancied him."

“Well, at least you didn’t do it for nothing.”

Thomas let his eyes slide over. Jimmy was focused on the numbers, dinging with each passing floor. He smiled, a little. Thomas smiled, too.


	5. Chapter 5

They were calling it the wedding of the year. That seemed accurate. Thomas didn’t know how it could be topped, unless a member of the Royal Family tied the knot, and even then, they would have a long way to go to have a wedding fancier than Philip and Alfred Crowborough’s.

“Fred’s changing his name?” Jimmy asked, looking at the glossy brochure of engagement pictures and messages from the groom and groom they received as they arrived at the Banqueting House in Whitehall.

“Looks like it. I think they’re in business together now, too.”

“People will assume they’re brothers.”

Thomas looked up. The newlyweds, in matching Brioni tuxedos, leaned against a Grecian column, kissing like they were at the beginning of a high class porn. Thomas could see tongues. “I don’t think so.” A photographer tugged at Phil’s sleeve, clearly trying to set up a more tasteful picture. Phil brushed her off and squeezed Fred’s arse.

The happy couple may have been a little crass, but the Banqueting House was nothing but sumptuous beauty, like something out of a fairy tale. Long tables with ice white linen tablecloths and deep scarlet runners were laid with the most elegant china and crystal. The centrepieces were tall urns spilling over with beautiful red and white flowers Thomas couldn’t name and didn’t try to. The whole atmosphere was high-class, refined. Thomas felt like he was in some old stately home, not a ten-million pound manufactured mansion like the Granthams’ but a proper house, a place of longstanding dignity and class. He didn’t know why he should feel so comfortable here. He’d never had either.

As they searched for their nameplates on the tables, a voice called out, “Thomas!” Thomas turned to see Cora Grantham, wearing a dress so violently orange it gave him an instant headache. “Hello, darling.” She embraced him, kissing the air a foot to each side of his face. “And Jimmy! It’s so nice to see you again.” They’d met only once, at the party, but Thomas wasn’t surprised Cora remembered Jimmy’s name. That was what she did. “Wasn’t it a lovely ceremony? And the vows. They had me reaching for my tissues.”

“They had me reaching for a bucket.” But Thomas smiled. The vows, written by Phil and Fred themselves, had been sickly, which had given Thomas an opportunity to amuse Jimmy—and himself—by murmuring translations into Jimmy’s ear.

“I am so fortunate to have found a man who loves me for who I am,” Phil said, to which Thomas whispered, “Because not everybody’s as keen on golden showers as me.”

Jimmy snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough. It wasn’t strictly true. Phil had only asked Thomas to try that once, and Thomas had suffered too much anxiety to actually produce anything, but making Jimmy try not to laugh was far more fun than watching Phil and Fred fawn over one another as if they’d invented love.

“The most wonderful feeling in the world is going to bed at night knowing you’ll be there when I wake up,” Fred said.

“With your hard-on against my arse,” Thomas added.

“I love you with a depth I never knew possible,” Phil said. Thomas couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Jimmy reached over and pressed his forefinger to Thomas’ lips. He leaned over, close enough that Thomas could feel Jimmy’s breath against his ear, and whispered, “Shut up.”

Three months had passed since that night under the stairs, and Thomas had kept his word. He and Jimmy were friends. Good friends, even. They went to the cinema together, they ate out together, they were together nearly every evening and Jimmy’s texts got him through day after boring day in the lockup. They never touched, apart from incidental brushes here and there, but it was more than Thomas had ever had before, even with Sarah. If this was as far as they ever went, he would be truly happy. Still, there was a part of Thomas, a tiny little bit, that still hoped one day, they might have more.

“They’ve only been together three months. What a whirlwind romance,” Cora said, apparently under the mistaken impression Thomas cared to discuss Phil and Fred’s relationship. “And no prenup! I never knew Phil was such a romantic.”

“Neither did I.” And Thomas had been with him for over a year. He wasn’t jealous, certainly. Thomas would have been happy never to see Phil again. He’d only come to the wedding because it was bound to be a posh do and he thought Jimmy might like it. Still, something turned in his stomach. Jimmy pressed the back of his right hand against the back of Thomas’ left. It was a tiny touch, barely there and then it was gone. Thomas felt it, and he appreciated it.

“And what about the two of you?” Cora’s expression grew suggestive as she looked between Thomas and Jimmy. “Should we be expecting another walk down the aisle before too long?”

“We’re just friends,” Thomas said, at the same time Jimmy replied, “Well, you never know.” Thomas turned and stared. Cora laughed and her mother-in-law, seated at the nearby table said, loudly, “This place is crawling with gays, so why is it so bleedin’ hard to get a decent Cosmo?”

“Mother!” Cora turned.

“What? It’s not offensive. Are you offended, Thomas?”

“Not really.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Jimmy.

“That’s not the point, Mother…”

Thomas walked away. Jimmy followed.

“What the hell was that?”

“What?” Jimmy blinked up at him, innocence on his face.

“’You never know’?”

“It’s just idle chat, Thomas. It’s what people expect at things like this.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t chat about that.” Thomas felt prickly, annoyed that Jimmy didn’t know that without being told. Thomas was patient with Jimmy. He’d forgotten—or tried to—everything Jimmy had promised him in those first few encounters. Jimmy didn’t want sex without love, or he thought Thomas didn’t want it anyway, and they weren’t in love. Thomas could cope with that, but he couldn’t cope with being teased about it. That wasn’t fair.

“All right. Sorry.” He didn’t sound it.

“Why don’t you look for our seats?” Thomas said. “I need the loo.”

The toilets were as posh as the rest of the place, of course, all gleaming polished tiles and gilded mirrors. Thomas used a urinal, feeling almost like he was desecrating a work of art. As he washed his hands, he glanced in the mirror and saw two sets of legs kneeling beside the same toilet. One of them wore a pair of red Berlutis on its feet, the other scuffed black Clarks.

Thomas pushed the stall door open easily. It wasn’t locked.

“If you get caught doing that here, they’ll chuck you out.” Thomas looked at Matthew Crawley and Tom Branson, huddled close with a long, white line laid out on a mirror on top of the toilet tank.

“Come on, Thomas.” Matthew smiled. Tom blinked excessively and stared at the lights. “You want a go?”

There was a time, not very long ago at all, when he wouldn’t have hesitated. Now, Thomas felt old, and tired, and irritable. “You’re fucking pathetic.” Matthew looked at him. They both did, although whether Tom was seeing him or a sparkling green monkey was anybody’s guess. “You’ve got fucking wives,” two of the Grantham sisters, Mary and Sybil, “and all you do is spend your time holed up with one another getting wasted. Grow up.” He walked away, the stall door swinging on its hinges.

As he stepped out of the gents’, Thomas ran directly into Fred Kostavas Crowborough. Directly into him, bumping so hard Thomas was propelled backwards a step. “Sorry,” Thomas mumbled, automatically.

“No worries.” Fred smiled, but didn’t keep walking, which compelled Thomas to say more.

“Where’s your husband?” Thomas had assumed they were joined at the mouth, like some sort of weird ocean creature.

“Talking to David Cameron. I need a bit of a break, actually.” He smiled at Thomas, conspiratorially, as if they were mates. “Fancy a smoke?”

They stood outside, on the pavement in front of the Banqueting House, watching cabs and limousines streak—or, more usually, crawl—by on the road in front of them.

Fred’s facial piercings had gone, and he wore a platinum wedding band on his left hand. Phil had a matching ring. He’d forsaken all others for it. That was all the proof Thomas needed that this was true love, if he’d doubted it. He was about to say something when Fred said, “Thank you.”

“You didn’t need me, mate.” Thomas’ role in the Romance of the Century had been minor to the point of non-existence. “I didn’t do nothing.”

Fred took a long draw on his cigarette. “You loved him first.” Thomas’ eyes came up, away from the traffic to Fred’s face. “Did you meet my mum?” Fred asked.

Thomas blinked at this non sequitur. “Yeah.” She had long hair and a flowing dress, and hoop earrings you could have kicked a football through. She’d sobbed throughout the ceremony, clinging to the arm of a man with a pencil moustache and a red velvet jacket.

“She always told me that when you love somebody, they become part of you, and you become part of them. Forever, like, no matter what happens. Sounds like stupid hippie shit, but I think it’s true.” He took another drag and breathed out the smoke. “I loved another man, too. Linus. Really loved him. I thought we were going to be together forever.” Fred looked at Thomas, his expression so open and honest that Thomas felt a vague sense of embarrassment, although Fred didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be saying all this. “We came out of the club one night and found a kid on a bad trip. Linus went over to help him, and the kid slashed his throat.” Thomas blinked. “I thought that was it for me, for a really long time. I didn’t think I’d ever love anybody again. Then I met Phil.” Fred smiled just saying his name. “He’s the one for me. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about Linus. What we had together will always be part of me, for good and for bad. It just means I’m ready to get on with my life.”

Thomas didn’t know what Fred was trying to say, and still less what it had to do with him.

“You can trust yourself to love again,” Fred said. “And you can trust him when he says he’s ready to.”

Fred smiled. He was way better looking without the rings in his face, Thomas decided. Barmy as hell, maybe, but hot. “Thank you,” Thomas said, hoping that would end the discussion. Fred nodded, like they’d just come to an understanding.

“I’d better go back.” Fred stubbed out his cigarette. Rather than toss the end into the gutter, he went over to a rubbish bin and dropped it in there. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Right, absolutely.”

Fred went inside. Thomas stayed out for a long while afterwards, until well after his cigarette was finished. Then he went to find Jimmy.

The wedding cake was twelve tiers high, and had already been featured on several television and online programmes. It was fruitcake, according to the brochure, with thick marzipan icing, and was apparently a bugger to get into because Phil and Fred stood there forever trying to cut the thing. Fred laughed, Phil looked like he’d just added a team of bakers to his list of people to ruin, and Jimmy, standing next to Thomas in the crowd of increasingly bored onlookers, took Thomas’ hand.

It was deliberate. He moved up close to Thomas, leaned into his arm a little, then pressed their palms together. Jimmy intertwined his fingers with Thomas’, and Thomas looked at him. “What are you doing?”

A blush rose to Jimmy’s cheeks. Thomas wondered how much champagne he’d had. Thomas had tried to monitor it, but he’d been seated next to one of Fred’s friends, a woman with yellow contact lenses and a rose tattoo on her neck who talked nonstop about the “party scene in Ibiza,” as if Thomas cared. “What does it feel like, Thomas?”

It felt like the first step on a road Thomas had already been down and couldn’t travel again. He tried to pull away, but Jimmy held tight. He wasn’t going to make a scene. He stood there, painfully aware of his sweating hand, until the damn cake was finally cut, Fred pushed a piece into Phil’s mouth and followed it with his tongue, and Jimmy let go to join in the applause.

Thomas hadn’t been sure what to expect in terms of music, given Fred’s former career and Phil’s disdain for anything not recorded between the years of 1975 and 1979, but they had clearly delegated this aspect of the wedding to somebody with taste. A jazz quartet struck up a sultry tune and Phil and Fred shared their first dance. Phil was a terrible dancer. _At least,_ Thomas thought, _that will never change._

When he’d finished dragging poor Fred jerkily about the floor, the music turned upbeat and everybody else joined in. Cora went out onto the dance floor, bringing her husband with her. He went, although he seemed to be watching a football match over her shoulder on his phone. Robert Grantham’s mother went out with Fred’s velvet-clad father, while Fred danced with his mother. Even Tom and Matthew were there with their wives, although they kept casting longing looks at one another. As soon as the song finished, Thomas was certain they’d be back in the toilet stall together, but at least they’d emerged for this long.

“Come on,” Jimmy said, and nudged Thomas with his arm. “Let’s dance.”

It didn’t seem like a good idea. “I don’t know, Jimmy.”

“I do.” He grabbed Thomas’ hand again and pulled him forwards.

Thomas was not a dancer. With a proper amount of liquid or powdered inspiration beforehand, he could gyrate to shitty music in shitty clubs, but he couldn’t dance properly, not with hand-holding and leading and all that. Jimmy wasn’t much better. He put his hand on Thomas’ waist, then seemed to change his mind and put it on his shoulder instead. “Like this,” he said, taking Thomas’ other hand. “Step forwards.” Thomas did. Directly onto Jimmy’s foot. Jimmy didn’t seem to mind. “You’re too far away,” he said, and jerked Thomas against his body, bringing them together from their chests to their knees.

“This is a bit indecent, isn’t it?”

“Half of these people have seen me give you a lap dance.”

“Yeah, well. The other half haven’t.”

Jimmy smiled and urged Thomas to move, in a rhythm that somewhat approximated the beat of the music.

It was humiliating. Nobody paid them the least bit of attention—barring Fred, who winked as he whirled past with his mother in his arms—but Thomas was embarrassed. Embarrassed at how poorly he danced, embarrassed at how Jimmy had to take the lead and embarrassed that, despite everything, he had a hard-on just from touching Jimmy like this.

Jimmy had to have noticed, they were pressed together so tightly, but he didn’t say anything. The music stopped. Thomas went to leave the floor, but Jimmy held him steady, and another, slower, song began. Jimmy didn’t move. They stood, stock still in the middle of the dance floor, while couples danced around them.

Jimmy wasn’t that much shorter than Thomas, but when he looked up from between his eyelashes, Thomas suddenly felt the difference. Jimmy blinked, threaded his fingers into Thomas’ hair, and pulled him down for a kiss.

It wasn’t like the kisses they’d had before, in the lockup and at the Granthams’ place. Jimmy’s hands gripped tightly and his heart beat against Thomas, but there was something else there, now. A hesitation, an uncertainty. His mouth wasn’t rough and demanding; it was soft, cautious, waiting for Thomas to respond before it deepened the kiss or slipped their tongues together. When Jimmy pulled away, he kept his arms locked around Thomas’ waist. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I think maybe I do love you after all. If that’s OK.”

Thomas searched his mind for some suave, debonair response. He came up with, “It’s OK.”

They left without saying good-bye. Phil wouldn’t notice, anyway, Thomas decided, and Fred would understand. Fred seemed to understand a lot of things. He was way too good for Phil, but, in a strange way, Thomas found himself hoping Phil wouldn’t fuck it up.

Thanks to whatever god controlled this sort of thing, an unoccupied taxi sat in front of the Banqueting House. They got in awkwardly, Thomas unable to let go of Jimmy’s hand for even a moment.

“I’ve got a flatmate,” Thomas said to Jimmy, when the driver asked where they wanted to go.

“So do I.”

“Mine’s into yoga.”

Jimmy looked at him. “Mine’s into One Direction.”

Thomas gave the driver his address and they merged into the traffic.

Thomas had never felt like this. The usual lust was there, the insistent, unrelenting desire to have sex with this man, the sooner the better, but that wasn’t all. Thomas wanted to go to bed with Jimmy, desperately, but he could picture waking up with him. He could picture spending a day with Jimmy, lounging in bed, watching the telly, taking a walk. He wanted to be with Jimmy, he wanted to help Jimmy, he wanted to protect Jimmy. No, Thomas corrected himself. He didn’t want those things, he had to have them. They weren’t whims or even desires, they were necessities. Looking after Jimmy was his job, his duty, and he had to do it. He couldn’t imagine not doing it; the very idea was impossible.

This feeling overwhelmed him, bringing with it a simultaneous headache and a sudden craving for a cigarette. He couldn’t smoke, so he put a hand to his head as the cab passed beneath the glowing yellow streetlamps.

“It’s OK.” Jimmy squeezed his hand, then brought it to his lips. “Me, too.”

He wasn’t a religious man, but Thomas prayed the entire way up the stairs that William would somehow be out of the flat. He wasn’t. He was pulling a bag of popcorn out of the microwave as Thomas opened the door. “Hi,” he said, and Thomas pushed him into his room.

“I’ll give you…” He took everything he had out of his wallet. “Forty-five quid to get out of here right now.”

“What?” William blinked. “I was just about to watch ‘Il Postino.’”

“William, please. I’m begging you.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Thomas thought, then was struck by an idea of such simple brilliance, he kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. “Jimmy,” he called. “Does Ivy have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s at home right now?”

“I can text her and find out.”

William frowned. “I don’t think…”

“It’s karma, William. Or kismet, or whatever the hell you want to call it.” Thomas couldn’t have cared less, as long as it happened fast. He bundled William back out of the room, towards the front door. “Just be sure to invite us to the wedding. Bye.”

Thomas’ room was neat. The entire flat was neat. He couldn’t stand to see anything out of place, and William was the same. It was the only reason they were still living together, since they were completely different in every other aspect of their personalities and lives. It meant that Thomas wasn’t embarrassed when Jimmy finally saw William off and came into the bedroom, at least not until Jimmy’s eyes fell on the chest of drawers in the corner, and on the torn-off Reebok Crossfit sole that sat on top of them. Jimmy took off his jacket and dropped it onto the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. Thomas felt ill.

“You don’t need to…”

“I was fucking awful to you, Thomas, you don’t need to keep pretending like I wasn’t. It’s embarrassing. I don’t have any excuse for it.” He unbuttoned his own shirt. Thomas did the same, then unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers. He wanted to hang them up, but he restrained himself. For the first time in his life, Thomas didn’t want to take the time.

“You have a lot of reasons, though.” Thomas sat on the end of his bed and pulled off his shoes and socks.

Jimmy shook his head. Thomas was about to say more, to launch into another speech about how Jimmy’s actions were understandable and he completely understood, when Jimmy took off his shirt. Suddenly, Thomas couldn’t form a single sentence.

Jimmy was beautiful. Magazine beautiful, television beautiful, the kind of beautiful Thomas had never actually seen in real life, and had never expected to. Jimmy’s body was as smooth and as sculpted as a Greek statue. Beside him, Thomas felt like a guy who ate a lot of kebabs and spent his days sitting in a lockup. “Jimmy…” He started, but Jimmy’s eyes were fixed on Thomas’ body, roaming up and down from his face to his feet past his slightly pudgy tummy and the hard-on straining his grey Y-fronts. A blush rose up in Thomas, following Jimmy’s eyes. “I’m not..I don’t…”

“You look brilliant.” Jimmy’s voice was breathless, sodden with desire. Thomas swallowed. Jimmy, still dressed below the waist, pushed him backwards onto his bed and crawled on top of him.

Thomas’ immediate instinct was to roll them over, to get Jimmy beneath him, but Jimmy shook his head. “After all I put you through,” he said, guilt still tinging his voice, “this is the least I can do.” Thomas tried to sit up. “Lie down,” Jimmy insisted. Thomas gave in.

Jimmy started at the bottom, literally. He took Thomas’ left foot in his hands and rubbed it, his thumbs pushing firmly enough into the sole that it was more pleasurable than ticklish. Thomas shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath him. Jimmy smiled, a big, happy smile that went straight to Thomas’ heart, and brought his tongue to the sole of Thomas’ foot. That went straight to Thomas’ cock.

“Jimmy…” He said, as Jimmy’s tongue swirled indiscernible patterns on his foot. The tongue licked at Thomas’ toes, then slid between them, an act so strangely erotic Thomas reached up and gripped the headboard hard enough to leave marks with his fingernails. Jimmy moved over to his right foot, pulling Thomas’ big toe between his lips. He stayed there only a moment before beginning a journey up Thomas’ legs, kissing and licking until his still-clothed erection pressed against Thomas’ sole. “Do you have…” Thomas swallowed and moved his foot, massaging gently. Jimmy groaned and kissed his thigh. “Do you have some sort of…fetish? Because that’s totally…uh…that’s totally fine…”

Jimmy didn’t answer. He moved further upward, by-passing Thomas’ groin to dip his tongue into Thomas’ navel. He kissed his way up Thomas’ chest, pausing briefly to remove a hair from his mouth, and lay completely on top of Thomas, their mouths aligned. “What do you want?” Jimmy asked. He slid his hand into Thomas’ Y-fronts, squeezing his slavering cock and rubbing his knuckles against Thomas’ balls.

Thomas couldn’t answer that. He wanted it all. “Fuck me,” he murmured, at last, and Jimmy kissed him.

Jimmy’s cock was as beautiful as the rest of him. Thomas had been longing to see it for months, and it was worth the wait. Jimmy took his time, kissing and rubbing and touching Thomas until Thomas was as hard as he’d been ever, in his entire life, his cock lying flat against his own stomach. Jimmy lay on top of him, his arms forming a protective cage around Thomas. He kissed Thomas’ face, over and over again until, finally, Thomas couldn’t take it any more. “For fuck’s sake, Jimmy…” He said, and Jimmy slid inside him.

Thomas expected to come instantly, guns blazing and fireworks bursting. Instead, as their sweat-slicked chests rubbed together and Jimmy panted on top of him, moving in and out in a measured rhythm, Thomas felt whole. For the first time ever, Thomas was complete. Complete, and so wonderfully and totally, perfectly happy that he had no choice but to bury his face in Jimmy’s shoulder, squeeze his eyes shut and bite his bottom lip. He was not going to be that guy who cried when he came.

He wasn’t, but he did shout out, a string of inventive expletives and creative endearments that made him instantly happy William wasn’t home. A few more thrusts and Jimmy was coming as well, with one word on his lips: “Thomas.”

Afterwards, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, Jimmy’s head on Thomas’ chest and Thomas’ hand in his hair. “I love you,” Jimmy said, his breath warm on Thomas’ skin.

Even after all they’d just done, even given the way he felt, Thomas’ stomach flipped with anxiety. There were no guarantees in life, nothing was certain. And they’d both been burned before. “You just want me for my cheap shoes.”

Jimmy laughed, then raised his head. He looked into Thomas’ eyes, so deeply that if Thomas had been a sentimental man, he would have said they saw into his soul. He wasn’t sentimental. Well, maybe just a little bit. “I know it’s scary, but we can do this.”

“Happily ever after?” Thomas meant to sound sarcastic. It came out hopeful.

“Happily ever after,” Jimmy said and kissed him.

***

The bundle of blankets in Fred’s arms let out a window-rattling belch. Fred put down the bottle and shifted the bundle, pointing its tiny red face over his shoulder. “He’s such a good eater,” Fred said, his voice brimming with pride, as if, Thomas thought, this was some acquired skill rather than a natural instinct for survival. “He’s gained five pounds since he was born. Just like his Daddy. Isn’t that right, Phil, love?” Fred laughed. Phil looked over. He was standing in the corner with a group of men and women in suits, an unlit cigar in his hand and an expression of bewilderment on his face, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d come to this. He did look a little paunchier. Thomas felt thrill of ungenerous glee.

Jimmy was on the other side of the Crowboroughs’ sitting room, which was decorated in an interesting combination of Chippendale and Fisher-Price. He’d been caught by Fred’s mother. Literally. She held his hand, running her fingers over his palm and peering at the lines. Jimmy raised his eyebrows at Thomas. Thomas shrugged. Jimmy rolled his eyes.

Fred, evidently following this exchange, said, “You guys are really well suited. I’m so happy for you.” His tone was genuine. “And I’m so happy you’re here.” Thomas had never expected to be anything approaching friends with Phil. They still weren’t what he would call bosom companions, but they did get together from time to time, with Jimmy and Fred, and so far they’d avoided punching one another in the face. That was a win in Thomas’ book.

“Oh my God, Fred, where is he?” Cora swept in, family in tow, wearing leggings and a long shirt printed with an image of stampeding stallions. “Where is my itty bitty sweetheart baby Linus?” She held out her arms for the baby. Fred passed over Linus, who immediately expressed everybody’s opinion of Cora’s shirt by vomiting on it. Thomas took advantage of the ensuing melee to escape, although he’d barely gone a dozen feet when Phil grabbed his arm.

“Here.” Phil thrust the cigar at Thomas. A blue ribbon was tied around the middle. “You can’t smoke it near the baby.”

“Right. Thanks.” Thomas shifted. Fred’s mother now had a hand on Jimmy’s forehead, leaning back with her eyes pressed shut as if she was divining all the secrets of his life. Thomas hoped not. They’d got up to some pretty kinky things on his last birthday. “Congratulations,” Thomas said.

Phil said, “I was in New York a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’ve got a new business opportunity. I thought you might be interested. Seems like your sort of thing.”

“Is that right?”

Fred’s mother hugged Jimmy like a long-lost relative, pushing his face into her shoulder and patting his back the way her son had burped his baby.

“What would you think,” Phil said, looking solemnly at Thomas, “about giving up on the shoes and opening a vegan pretzel stand?”


End file.
